


Mostly Accidental

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life doesn't always happen the way you think it's going to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mostly Accidental

**Author's Note:**

> Innumerable thanks to rachel  & Carrie for the wonderful betas. :)This is another first--first Jim POV--and they were wonderful about helping me get it ready! 

## Mostly Accidental

by Tangent

Author's disclaimer: They're not mine and never will be, no matter how many falling stars I wish upon. 

* * *

The first time I kissed Blair, it was almost an accident. Mostly. He'd fallen asleep while sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, which was covered in clusters of papers and a half-dozen textbooks, and he was snoring lightly. His head was leaned back against the couch cushions, his hair spilling across the fabric and floating around his head in a wild nimbus of curls. I'd just gotten home, so I dumped my keys in the basket, stripped off my coat, and walked quietly across the room. 

Standing over him, I watched his chest rise and fall, and his lashes flutter as he dreamed. Smelling his unique scent, I felt a rush of affection for him that was sudden and unparalleled. It literally crashed through me, and I laid my hand on top of his head and stroked his hair, feeling each curled and silken strand of it catch against my calluses and slide through my fingers. 

"Sandburg," I whispered. "Hey, Chief, wake up." 

He usually woke up fast, alert in seconds. But not this time, which I attributed to the fact that he'd been putting in long hours at the university, dealing with a series of dilemmas that had come up out of the blue. 

Typical finals week, he had said to me with a manic grin when I saw him last, which had been...Tuesday? Except that he'd been keeping up a hectic pace for at least three weeks between writing his exams and dealing with work at the station. 

But he'd assured me that it was almost over when I called him on Wednesday and managed to catch him in his office. He'd had a line of students at the door and a half-eaten sandwich on his desk, he'd said, and could he call me back later? He was on schedule for the day, mostly, and would see me at home if he didn't catch me at the station. 

I heard whispering in the background--"Sandburg's on the phone with his boyfriend. Maybe we should give them some privacy?" "No way, Mary! Imagine what everyone would say if we accidentally overheard him say something really cool?"--but I only grinned and agreed to get off the phone. Sandburg didn't need to deal with the rumor mill on top of his heavy class load and all the substitute proctoring he was doing, and I didn't think the kid had eaten anything more than an apple in the past week. 

Rumors didn't bother me anymore. But Blair was capable of worrying about them excessively when he was already stressed--not that he worried for himself or his own reputation, but because he thought I'd kill him if my image as a 'macho stud' was damaged. Never seemed to matter that I told him I couldn't care less about my image, he was convinced it was important to me. 

Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself, and then he comes up with this totally distorted idea about my priorities and I don't know whether to laugh at him or reassure him. 

In any case, he really needed to get into bed if he was tired enough to fall asleep sitting on the floor. "Blair," I said a little more firmly and tugged on his hair. "Come on, Blair." 

Finally, he moaned a little and opened his eyes. I couldn't help myself and frowned at him--I absolutely hate it when he works himself into exhaustion, which he does more and more frequently these days. I'd make it a house rule that no one who lives here works more than sixty hours per week, but he'd just laugh at me. 

Maybe-- 

"New house rule, kid." I tugged his hair again and watched those big, dazed eyes clear a bit. "Anyone who works more than ten hours a day is required to take a nap once he gets home, before attempting more work." 

He didn't laugh, but his grin was big and toothy. I gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet, braced him as he teetered a little. He tried to talk through a yawn, so all I got was a mumble of vowel sounds and a whiff of Dorito breath. 

"Try that again when you're a couple feet away from me," I suggested. He grinned, but his eyes were half-closed and I could see that he was mostly asleep again--this time on his feet--and I sighed. With just the gentlest push, I had him toppled onto the couch cushions. His eyes were closed before he'd even finished falling. When I leaned over him to pull down the blanket, he was taking very regular, deep breaths; he was already fast asleep. 

I don't know why I hovered over him for so long, watching him sleep. I'd never done it before. But it was like I'd never seen him before, and needed to memorize his features one by one because it was so _important_ that I know how long his eyelashes were, how full his lower lip was, how his bone structure seemed remarkably elegant and yet...raw. 

Things I'd never noticed about a man before, and haven't noticed since. 

If I'm confused about why I studied him for so long, I'm utterly lost about why I bent down further, until I could feel the warmth of his lips against my own. I'm bemused by the fact that I slipped my tongue in until I could slide it against the slickness behind his teeth and press it against his own tongue. And I doubt I'll ever know why I went on exploring him until his eyes opened, until he made a startled and maybe frightened kind of noise but then relaxed and kissed me back. 

His heart was beating in his chest like a drum. I put my hand on him, right over where I thought his skin would be bruised by the frantic pace of that rushed beat. He clutched my wrist like it was a lifeline and tore his mouth away from mine with a gasp. 

"Jim--" he said, breathing roughly. "Jim, what?" 

I kissed him again, feeling like I had to have his taste on my tongue or go crazy, but I took the time to ask him if he hated it, if it was all right, and he didn't answer but instead put his other hand on the back of my neck and pulled me down. He knew who I was and what we were doing, and I was all too fully aware of whose mouth I had crushed beneath my own, and it seemed so right that I had to wonder how we had gone years without kissing before. How I had survived without his taste. How I would survive any longer if I didn't have his skin against mine. 

This second kiss was definitely no accident. Nor was the third, or any that followed afterwards. 

He went upstairs with me and lay panting on the bed while I touched him, licked him, did my best to absorb him into my skin and make him come at the same time. But he didn't climax; he got hard and stayed hard but didn't spill into my hands or mouth no matter how I touched him and asked him to let go. Finally he just pushed me away and began to explore my body as I had explored his. 

I came. It wasn't a struggle at all for me, I just let the feel of his fingers seep into my brain and didn't resist the touch of his mouth, and I came. Then I pulled him up and kissed him wildly, discovering that the taste of myself in his mouth was incredibly arousing and contrarily soothing, and finally he moaned. I felt him spurt against my stomach and wrapped my arms around him. We were glued together by sweat and come and I've always been fastidious but I didn't _care_. 

He fell asleep without having said a word since we were downstairs on the couch. I held him tightly, marveling at the fact that he fit against my body better than my ex-wife ever had, and I listened to the blood rush through his body, wondering why it had taken him so long to give in and come. But sex had dulled my brain and I finally fell asleep as well, dreaming uneasily of the jungle, of the wolf fleeing from the jaguar. 

And when I awoke a few hours later, Blair was gone. 

* * *

I paced for a long time, unable to understand why he had not stayed with me. I had surprised him, I understood that much, but I had surprised myself too, and didn't feel the need to run. If he had been beside me when I awoke, I'm pretty sure that my first urge would have been to kiss him again. To do it all again, and again until he came apart, sweet and easy in my hands. 

Had I misread him? I didn't think so, not even when I reviewed the whole evening down to the most minute detail. I couldn't imagine that I had frightened him, couldn't dare imagine it, but I just couldn't understand. 

He'd never run from me before. It nearly broke my heart. 

When he came back, it was almost midnight and he was grey with exhaustion. His face was lined with stress and his hands shook as he took off his coat. I stayed well out of his space, just watched him lean back against the door. 

For a moment, there was silence. Then I stepped forward but he held up his hands like a traffic cop. "Don't," he said, intense and quiet and not looking at me. "Just...don't." 

That hurt and I wanted to lash out, would have lashed out were it not for the fact that his hands were still shaking and he was propped up like willpower was the only thing that kept him from sliding down onto the floor. I said nothing, and after a few seconds, he dropped his hands. 

"We're going to ignore this." 

That shocked me. More than kissing him had, more than coming with him had, perhaps even more than waking without him had. "No, Blair--" 

"We _are_ , Jim." He finally looked at me, and the expression in his eyes made me want to turn away. I didn't, of course, couldn't, but I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be blind. To have never seen that look in his eyes. 

"All right," I said. "I gotta say, I'm disappointed in you on this one, Blair. What happened to the guy who would talk out _any_ situation?" 

"Was what we did a result of anything Sentinel-related?" 

I hesitated, because I had wondered about that while he was gone. The truth was, I didn't know, and I suspected that I _couldn't_ know. "There are some mysteries that I just don't want to solve," I told him and he smiled a little, but it was bitter. 

"We don't have anything to worry about, Jim," he said, and I nodded. I didn't believe him, exactly, but I was determined to give him whatever he needed. To fight my every instinct and let him be. Whatever he wanted. 

Just so long as he didn't leave. 

I've always had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that if Blair decided he wanted to go, for any reason, that'd be it. No more Guide, no more Sandburg at the station, no more Blair at home...nothing. Just me, alone. 

Alone for a long time, if not forever. Who else would live with me? I've settled into my habits, got things the way I want them, and I'm stubborn. Blair had reasons for sticking around that were more important than annoying house rules and a roomie with an occasionally nasty temper. If he decided that his reasons weren't so important anymore.... 

I turned away from him then, unable to watch as he walked with unsteady, graceless steps into his room. 

He hesitated on the threshold; I could feel his gaze on my back and I straightened my shoulders. "We _will_ talk about this," he promised softly, and I wanted to ask him when, was ready to promise him, we don't have to talk if you'll just come back to bed, but I didn't say anything. Didn't move. Just let him shut the door and listened as he got into his bed with all of his clothes on, removing only his boots. 

I stood in the living room and looked out the window into the dark night without seeing anything at all. Just thinking about how strange it all was blinded me to everything but the remembered images in my mind. Blair sleeping on the floor. Blair twisting underneath me in my bed. Blair resting on my chest with his stomach pressed tight against mine and my arms wrapped around his back. 

Why was I not the one who was freaking out? I'd learned a lot about people since my teens and despite growing up with my father's ranting diatribes about almost every kind of person under the sun, I had become open-minded. Or relatively so, anyway, and even more after Blair came into the picture. But I never thought I'd want a man, and here I was feeling craving his taste. And there he was, free spirited, brilliant, culturally-experienced and life-savvy Blair, driving himself well, well past exhaustion and then going further out of his way to avoid me. 

I deliberately emptied my mind, but my senses focused on him as soon as they weren't focused on my memories. The sound of his breathing made my chest hurt. My heart beat in sympathetic rhythm with his, and I thought about going through the door into his room and pressing my body so tight against him that Blair would hear and feel every shock. 

Dumb idea. I tried to dismiss it immediately, but the image lingered. A part of me began to hunger for him in yet another new way, and I laughed. This isn't you, Ellison, I told myself. Somehow the kid fried your circuits. 

No big revelation there. 

I'm not a man prone to hours of emotional upheaval, nor am I romantic or sentimental to any great degree. That night, I pretty much wore myself out for a few years to come--or at least, a few days. After I heard Blair's tight breathing relax into a sleep pattern, I climbed the stairs back up to the loft and crawled into my bed, exhausted in ways I haven't been since boot camp. Since Peru. Since the night I accepted that my marriage was over. 

Even during the worst times with Blair--like the days after I kicked him out, and the days after I moved him back in--I had never been so emotionally drained. 

I could still smell him there in my bed, although there was surprisingly little evidence of his presence. Maybe no one but a sentinel would have picked up on his scents, on the fact that he had lain on those sheets. Or maybe I noticed because it was something I _wanted_ to notice. 

He would know, I thought as I pressed my face against the pillows and breathed slowly, deeply. Maybe tomorrow...I could ask him about it, I thought. Maybe tomorrow I could ask him about a lot of things. 

That idea wasn't enough. Nor was the smell of him in the bed, or the fact that I could hear him. For the first time in years, I went to sleep feeling...lonely. 

* * *

"Oh, so the meaning of Life isn't forty-two--which was _not_ coincidentally the speed you were doing in a twenty-five zone, right? Forty-two isn't the reason that guy pulled you over at all. It was me!" Blair paced away and back again, muttering. "Good to know I'm the center of the fucking universe, Jim. The almighty black hole that destroys All Good Things!" 

"I'm not saying that, Chief. I'm just saying that if I wasn't so focused on trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with you, I wouldn't have been in a zone--" 

"Why don't you blame the cop that pulled you over? Why not just accept that you should have had the lights going?" He tossed his hands in the air. "You were _not_ zoning, Jim. Maybe I was remiss in not telling you to put on the lights, but you were not zoning, so this was _not_ my fault." 

"Maybe not," I agreed. "But it was a close thing. And I think you saw it coming and didn't do anything about it." 

Blair stopped pacing and looked at me with a dropped jaw. "You think I knew how close you were? And didn't do anything? Jim, you were behind the wheel! I don't have a death wish...if I had seen how close you were, I would have pulled you back." He looked utterly enraged and sincere, but something lurked in the back of his eyes that made me shift on the couch. It might have been hurt, it might have been guilt--and I didn't know which would be worse. 

"It doesn't matter," I said. "What does matter is the fact that I nearly zoned and you didn't have a clue. That I had all of my attention on you, and you still had no idea what was going on." 

His shoulders slumped and he dropped onto the couch beside me. His head dipped to rest against the back and he sighed, slow and deep. This was the most relaxed he'd been around me in two weeks, and I wished again that we'd taken the time out to have a fight earlier. It's just that he'd been...such a polite stranger in _my_ house, at _my_ table, in _my_ truck. 

The anti-Sandburg, polar opposite of the man who makes everything _ours_. 

The kid's always had his manners--mostly--but he's also had this innate ability to make himself comfortable in almost any situation. Seemed like he'd lost that since we slept together. Like we'd lost that. 

"Guess we need to talk, huh?" he said, wearily. 

"Maybe just a little." 

He sighed again, closed his eyes. "Yeah. Don't want to upset your system, man." He hesitates, then says, "If I spit it all out and then think about it later, it'll be easier, right? Like ripping off a bandage. That's the way I make you talk, anyway." 

I had nothing to say about that so just stayed silent, wary. 

"All right," he said, his voice a little sharp. "We do this fast. I grew up never knowing for sure how long we'd be living in one place. I learned pretty damned early that the only important stuff is the stuff you can pack in a bag and carry on the road and the only important people are the ones who will drop everything to go with you. And let me tell you, man, that was a damned handy philosophy to have hanging around in my head." His hands rose in the air and flew about a little. The scowl on his face deepened. 

"Maybe it's a commitment phobia. Maybe I just don't want to be hurt. For sure, I don't want to hurt other people." 

You hurt me by running, I thought. By being so cool and polite this last week that it was like living with Carolyn all over again. 

"Maybe," he continued in a murmur, "it's just that I feel so restless and urgent sometimes. Like I've got to go somewhere, do something. I kinda love that feeling, man. I'm _used_ to it. But I can't just go anymore. I have responsibilities." He looked over at me and while I knew I was part of those responsibilities, I didn't even care if that was good or bad. It just...was. 

I watched him and felt my pulse slow down, even though this was a conversation I'd never thought we'd have until that night we slept together so briefly, and I wasn't sure anymore that I wanted to go where it might lead. 

I didn't dial up my senses, but still they seemed to expand until everything had a softer edge and colors were flatter yet somehow more vibrant. Like being on some kind of high, I'd told him once. Zones can be like hallucinations, times when suddenly you're three steps away from God, and He's going to turn to you any moment now. 

This kind, this very mild outreach of the senses, was more pleasurable than frightening, and I can always pull back. Most of the time, Blair doesn't even recognize what I'm doing, maybe because I only do it when he's distracted. If he knew, would it surprise him that I watch him differently than I watch other people? Should it? 

Oh. Maybe.... 

"You don't feel that way around me," I said, having sensed the truth in that, realizing that I am as...different from other people to him as he is to me. I'd noticed a long time ago that he seems challenged by me. We both enjoy sparring, playing, being smart-asses with each other, I thought. And he was so much more...steady and in control these days. But.... 

By being with me, had he given up part of himself? The part that liked to wander the world, was it gone now? Had I killed it, and did Blair resent me for the loss? Guilt washed through me. I'd never meant to chain him down--not consciously, in any case. 

He looked at the ceiling again, and his hands seemed to be tracing out some mystical pattern in the air. "But I always thought you'd remarry, Jim. Or get sick of me. Or learn to control your senses--something. And then you'd ask me to leave, or I'd go on my own to make it easier." 

"Not everyone leaves," I told him quietly. "Not everyone will want you to go." 

"You will." 

"No." I hesitated, wondering how much of myself I ought to reveal. It's hard for me to make leaps of faith, to trust even the people I love. I compromised with myself and said, "There comes a time in most people's lives where they settle down with one person. When life stabilizes." 

"Who says I want stability, Jim?" He turned his head to look at me again and his eyes were glossy, a little wild. I didn't flinch but it felt like he said maybe he didn't want me, and that was so...impossible, so exactly _not_ what I thought we both needed--I wanted to pretend that I hadn't heard it. 

"Naomi hasn't had a stable home since she was a teenager," he continued, "and she's happier that way. Maybe I am too. Will be. Whatever." 

"But you've had a stable home for years." And one person to share it with, I thought. 

He snorted, looked back up at the ceiling. "Have I, Jim? Really?" 

I shrugged and shifted on the couch to sit closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his skin like the warmth of the sun and basked in it. There are times when the jaguar is close to the surface. 

"You can't throw that in my face all the time, Blair." I reached out and grabbed some of his hair, wound it around my fist, taking comfort in the smell of it and the fact that he didn't try to run again. "I've said my apologies and done what I can to make up for it. I..." Confession was difficult even when I was a boy who'd committed minor sins; confessing my biggest regret to Blair was no easier. But it had to be done. Didn't it? 

"I will never forget finding you in the fountain. Knowing I'd put you there as surely as Alex did. But she's gone now and I swear to you, I learned from that experience," I said, and just to prove that maybe I had smartened up about some things but hadn't learned _anything_ from the first time we made love, I kissed him. 

Making out on the couch is something that I haven't done in a good long time, and it wasn't entirely comfortable. But I was into it, and praying that Blair was too--my prayers seemed to be answered every time he whispered my name or shifted so that I could touch him where it felt best. But after a time, too short a time, he shoved at my shoulders and scooted across the couch, away from me. 

"Talking," he said shakily as he pulled his shirts back over his head and adjusted himself in his jeans. "We were talking. Got anything else to add?" 

I didn't, so he swallowed and his lashes fluttered down. "All right," he said. "I've been holding that time you kicked me out over both of our heads. Acting like a martyr. Reminding you of it as often as I can." 

Amazed that he could pick up the thread of our conversation exactly where we had left it, I grinned a little but it faded before I said, "You don't ever have to remind me of what you went through. I'll remember." 

The corner of his mouth trembled a little, as if he was fighting off a sob or perhaps a smile. I put my hand back in his hair and used my grip to turn his head and make him look at me. 

"I ever try to kick you out again, just knee me in the groin," I told him, mostly serious. "Tell me to get my head out of my ass or something." There were things far more reassuring that I would have liked to say to him--flowery, pretty things like I love you, and please stay forever but words had never been my thing. I didn't know how to handle them. 

And for that matter, aren't words just the kind of baggage that cannot be packed in a bag and prepared for a move? Never mind my own insecurities, if one of the most sensual, affectionate men I've ever met can barely deal with sex, well, of course there's some kind of problem. 

"I didn't...step out of line with you, did I?" I asked, remembering that gut-wrenching fear that I had somehow pushed him past his limits, remembering that I had been unable to face myself in the mirror. What if all his words about stability and commitment were merely hiding the fact that he was afraid of me? We had barely touched in the weeks since we slept together, and he'd developed this tendency to not meet my gaze-- 

He shifted on the couch, cleared his throat and didn't speak. So, abruptly panicked, I dropped his hair, rose clumsily to stand, ready to run out of the loft, to deed it over to him, whatever. If I _had_ frightened him not once but twice, now-- 

"No, Jim," he said, jumping up to put his hands on my arms seconds before I decided that maybe the best thing I could do would be giving him all my worldly possessions and disappearing back into the jungles of Peru. He tried to shake me, his hands tight around my arms, and I let him because maybe I deserved that and more. 

Then it registered that he was tucking himself in against my chest, saying, "No, Jim, don't think like that, man. It was a shock, I won't deny that, but I've been mad at myself--not at _you_." 

Cautiously, I wrapped my arms around him and let his scent seep into my pores, let him heal all the little wounds life had inflicted. All the wounds he had inflicted. All the wounds I had scratched at and scratched at until they were nearly scars. "Mad at yourself," I whispered into the cinnamon scent of his hair when I could speak again. "Why?" 

"Because, man. I'm just--I'm not--" 

I thought about making him look at me, but instead just held him tighter, tried to be reassuring and encouraging--he'd taught me a lot about those kinds of things, without even trying. The least that I could ever do for him would be to return the favor. 

"I don't...I just was thinking that you deserved something, someone better, and--" 

"Christ, Sandburg," I said. "What the hell made you think that there was ever anyone better for me than you?" 

"Well..." 

I rolled right over him. "Well, nothing. Ever since my mother--since I was young, I had this habit of...I was a nasty jerk. For the most part people respected me but almost no one really _liked_ me. No one could deal with me, even after I straightened up a bit for Major Crimes. And it wasn't important. As long as everyone got the job done, I didn't care." I stepped back from him a little, made eye contact with him, did my best to communicate my sincerity. "You changed that in me, Blair, and I didn't realize it for a long time. Changed me for the better in more ways than that, just like I think I've changed you. We just...didn't see. But now, we know. And I'm _glad_." 

He looked at me for a long time after my outburst, without speaking, and I started to get nervous. I'm more than capable of stringing words together in a good sentence, but that had been quite a ramble, and I wasn't sure he would understand. 

He was still wrapped loosely in my arms, our bodies were still close and comfortable, but even Stranger Sandburg had never been this quiet or this intent. Then he asked, "Do you mean it?" I nodded, and he started laughing and I nearly turned him loose. 

"I thought you'd hate me once you saw how you'd changed," he said, and reeled himself back into my arms. "I thought you'd hate me more once you realized what I felt for you. I never--" 

"What you felt for me?" I asked, relieved and raised my eyebrows. He nodded, grinning, but said nothing more. He didn't have to, just like I didn't have to. 

The wonders of a strong partnership. 

"I'm a little tired of this talking thing," I told him, smiling, stepping away from him after a final, comforting squeeze. "Think maybe we could move on now?" 

"Well, if you're hungry, we could go out. Or...if you think that maybe you want to feel something for me again," he said, arms spread out wide, a big grin on that so familiar face, "you're more than welcome to do so." 

It didn't even take me a heartbeat to decide; I laughed and charged him, knocking him back onto the couch and immediately wrestling with his layers. "Help welcome me a little more," I said between kisses, "and get naked." 

And this time, when I dreamed after we had both fallen asleep, the wolf and jaguar prowled the jungle side by side. 

* * *

End

 


End file.
